Maybe Forever
by earthday
Summary: Helped by Tom Chamberlain, Armistead and Hancock may get one more chance to see each other again after Gettysburg.
1. Chapter 1

**Maybe Forever**

The world was a land of white smoke, ebbing and flowing across the field in front of him like some great milky sea, coming closer and closer to envelop him. He waited for it each time he opened his eyes but it kept faltering at the copse of trees. They were still trying to fight against it, tear at the boys in blue beyond, give a punch that would travel all the way to the ears of Washington, but those same boys in blue kept rising from the smoke, bursting through like ghosts of this terrible, terrible War.

He wanted to move, raise the sword aloft again and charge right alongside them, lead the sweeping force, yet he was pinned down, some invisible power making him stay, slumped against this cold cannon. It should have been theirs, they could still win this day, they could still win this War, all they needed was to get past that copse of trees…Get past that copse of trees…

He couldn't feel the pain anymore, the sharp screams in his shoulder that had been so vicious mere minutes ago. A sense of numbness had come over him and all he could feel was the hot breeze against his face, damp with blood and tears.

He had thought of Hancock for a long time. There were so many men around him, his own men, the other men they called the enemy, yet he felt the loneliness deep inside, the same he had been trying to fend off all day, maybe a sign, a foretelling. He had tried to see through the smoke, look for the figure on the horse, and he thought he saw him once before the smoke stole him away and he wasn't sure if he'd seen anything at all. He closed his eyes, tried to find a place of peace, but he could only see California. _If I ever raise my hand against you, may God strike me dead._ It was coming now, he knew it. _May God strike me dead…_

There was suddenly a voice through the smoke, close by but still very soft. He murmured Win's name, still in California, and tried to turn his head, see the man who was still holding him steady. It wasn't him. It was a young Yankee officer surrounded by other Union men. ''Sir…'' he was saying and he saw he had kind eyes, concerned. He couldn't have been anything over 20. ''Sir, can you hear me?''

He tried to say something but to begin with, nothing came out. His eyes rolled back to the heavens momentarily, then back to the young man beside him who was squeezing his hand, attempting to comfort him or keep him on this Earth. ''Sir?''

''Can you – help me up – please?'' he heard himself say, then wondered if he had said it at all.

''Sir, can you tell me what your name is? Who you are?''

For a moment, he couldn't think of his own name. He stared at the officer, his vision clouding suddenly so all he could see were soft, coloured shapes and the fuzzy line of that copse of trees, so very close, but still so very, very far away. His name…No, that didn't matter. Win. Where was Win?

''I would like to speak with General Hancock. Do you know where General Hancock may be found?''

Through the blur and smoke, he saw the boy's expression change. _What is it?_ _Tell me, tell me…_ ''I'm sorry, sir…'' he said. ''The general's down. He's been hit.''

The sharp pain that had faded for a while now came burning back, attacking his chest and throat, and he choked on its horrid grip, tears rolling down his cheeks. ''No!'' he cried out. ''Not both of us! Not all of us! Please, God!''

The hands held him steady, squeezing softly and he felt it again. _May God strike me dead… No, Win, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…_ He tried to close his eyes, say a small prayer, anything, anything, but the words wouldn't come and suddenly, all he could hear was the sound of the guns, the screams of his men, this War…this terrible, terrible War…_Not like this, please God, not like this…_

''Sir…'' the boy's voice was back, feeble words amongst all these horrible sounds. ''-the surgeon's coming as quickly as he can…''

_No. Not like this…_ The smoke was appearing again and he thought he saw a figure watching him by the wall. He looked again and it was just the copse of trees, a strange illusion in the hot afternoon sun, before the haze cleared it away. A cold deafness descended upon the world along with it. ''Can you – can you hear me…?'' he managed.

''Yes, sir, I can hear you…''

_Win, can you hear me?_ ''Will you tell – General Hancock that – General Armistead sends his regrets…'' _Maybe for years, maybe forever…_ The words choked him. ''…will you – tell him – how very sorry I am…''

There was a pause where the boy just stared at him, eyes soft. Slowly, he lowered them and then bowed his head, removing his hat. ''Yes, sir…'' he said quietly, mournfully. ''I will tell him…I will tell him…''

Tom felt an immense heaviness as he walked away from General Armistead and the surgeon who had recently arrived to tend to him. He had seen grief on many levels, on so many fields, in the eyes of many men and women and sometimes even children in the towns they rode through, victims of the war without ever knowing anything about the battles until one raged outside their front door, but he couldn't erase the vision of the look of helpless despair on General Armistead's face when he had heard of General Hancock's fate.

_Will you tell him how very sorry I am…that General Armistead sends his regrets…_

The words swarmed in his mind. He wondered if this was something that a farm boy from a little town in Maine barely out of his teenage years should be getting involved in – wondered how it had ever come to this – but with every step he took, passing each man wounded or lying with the fire gone from their eyes forever on the ground, he couldn't help thinking of the two men. At his feet, he saw boys in blue who no doubt had friends on the other side yet it had always been that. The other side, like a deep chasm separated them.

He had never realised…that it could be like this.

And now he had been given this message. He had promised he would deliver it, promised it to a man who he could see was slowly slipping away. The thought made him bow his head, made his throat tighten. The image of his despair came again – he hasn't seen him since this War began, he could see that, he hasn't known…And now…He began to think of Lawrence, tried to imagine what it would be like to suddenly come face to face with him on either side of that stone wall…One in blue, one in grey. He couldn't see it, didn't want to.

This message. It had made him a part of all this now and he suddenly felt a great loyalty to the two generals and…this. He would see this through.

At his side, he noticed one of the young officers who had also been with General Armistead walk up and fall into step with him. ''Lieutenant…'' he said. Tom paused and turned to him, barely remembering to salute when he saw the insignia on the surprisingly clean uniform. ''My name is Captain Henry Bingham, and I am on General Hancock's staff. General Armistead is a dear friend of his. If you would like, I could deliver his message to the general.''

For a moment, Tom looked the man up and down. He appeared to be hardly any older than himself and had soft, kind eyes, must have also seen what Tom saw in General Armistead. He meant well, Tom could tell. But General Armistead had spoken to _him_ directly. He had seen the despair and now felt this slow, deep heaviness. He had to deliver this message.

''No,'' he said. ''No, I feel like I should…General Armistead spoke to me…''

Bingham looked at him hard for a second or two and Tom felt like he was being scrutinised and judged. However, Bingham soon nodded. ''Yes,'' he said. ''Yes, of course. I understand. And I'm sure General Hancock will appreciate it too.''

There was another pause and the cries of the wounded started to rise up around them, horrid sounds from what sounded like miles around. Tom suddenly had the disorientating and unnerving feeling that he was standing right in the middle of it all. He looked up and saw the sun going down, a purple tone shading the sky. He wondered how such a bloody, terrible day could end with such a beautiful evening.

'' – I would take you to the general now,'' continued Bingham, his eyes still on the ghastly field, '' – but, as you know, he is wounded badly. I would rather he gets to a hospital before…before he is told. But I can soon find you – what is your name?''

Tom returned to the captain, away from the colourful sky. ''My name is Lieutenant Tom Chamberlain, 20th Maine Regiment.''

Bingham nodded. ''Lieutenant, I will find you.''

A formal salute and Tom turned to walk away across the field, back to try and find Lawrence. Behind him, he heard Bingham mutter his surname, as if trying to remember something he'd forgotten.

TBC

**My very first Gettysburg fanfic, which is terrible considering I first saw it almost over a year ago! :) But, after reading the Shaara trilogy, I just had to get back to it so here's my little tribute to a great film and a great set of books! **

**Armistead and Hancock's story broke my heart. I wanted so badly for them to meet again and in my little story, maybe they will again? ;)**

**I'd love to hear what you think so far! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Maybe Forever**

**Chapter 2**

He found General Hancock at the rear of the field, lying on a blood-soaked stretcher and impatiently waving away aides. As he approached, he slowed his steps and found himself taking off his hat at the sight of the general's damp, hastily wrapped bandage, tied with the desperation of stopping the steady flow spreading down his legs. There was still defiance in his eyes as Bingham knelt down at his side.

''Heaven above, Captain, I'm not dead!'' he snapped. ''Put your hat back on!''

Bingham heard the snarling pain in his voice, the frustration at lying on his back away from the front lines. He had said not two hours ago that there were times when a commander's life didn't matter, had refused evacuation. Bingham felt a deep admiration for him behind the sorrow he felt for the sight. He obeyed and put his hat back on.

''How are you, General?'' he asked.

''I've been worse,'' he grimaced in response and Bingham willed himself not to look down at the wound, tried not to remember watching the general pulling at that great, bloody nail and those splinters. _I've been worse,_ he repeated in his mind and almost wanted to smile at Hancock's tenacity.

''We must get you to the hospital, General,'' he said simply and then, in reply to the fight still echoing somewhere, still pushing though Bingham had seen the devastation by those trees: ''Here is no place for you to be.''

''I seem to be in the wrong places constantly today, Captain –'' He winced suddenly and Bingham reached to steady him as he tried to move. He glanced at the bandage then immediately regretted it, instead looked up to the sky, the beautiful evening, thought of how very curious it was. Such a terrible day. ''-or that's what people keep telling me.''

Bingham returned to Hancock, saw the last flickers in his eyes as he wrestled with staying awake. He motioned to some aides to assist him and he squeezed the general's hand as they rolled him onto his back again on the stretcher, until he realised his eyes were glazing over. It didn't matter how hard either of them tried, they couldn't stop the wound claiming him for a while.

As they lifted him, he turned to look out again across the field and saw them, all the other wounded, too many to even begin to count. They were lying there, some still clutching weapons and flags fluttering in the breeze, twisted bodies of blue and grey, lying side by side. The tortured face of General Armistead suddenly came into his mind, the anguish at the news of General Hancock, the message he'd given the young lieutenant beside him.

He'd heard much of Armistead from General Hancock, had listened to the stories, had seen the pain when he spoke of him but that plea, that final desperate attempt, that look, had spoken just as much as he had knelt there beside the man. He thought of telling Hancock, wondered if he was thinking of him as he lay there looking up at the orange sky, where he was, how he was and Bingham ached at keeping such precious information from him.

But then he thought of the lieutenant – Chamberlain, Tom Chamberlain. He was a good man and he had promised deeply, honestly, truthfully to the general that he would deliver the message. And he would. So Bingham kept quiet, kept his head down as he helped the general to the hospital. There would be a time and he prayed it would be soon.

He had to find a path through the fields of the dead and the wounded and the crying. He saw friends clinging to one another, some clinging to their last moments together, some thanking God they were both still breathing, some already too late and sitting there holding a still body in their arms. He wondered how many were brothers, how many were cousins, how many were fathers and sons. But all of them were lost, driven on now the fighting had ended by a grim, desperate search to find those they had lost sight of before through the gun-smoke and madness. Tom had to turn away as he saw one man standing amongst the wreckage and helplessly shouting for a man named John, eyes wide and so knowing as he looked around.

He had to find Lawrence. He had to be here.

He kept looking up but the image of him lying at his feet with all the others was insistent. No, he wasn't like that. This wasn't the end. It wasn't the end, not today. Tom found himself repeating that as he stumbled along, believing it less and less with every step. _Lawrence, come on, where are you?_ He felt his name building in his throat, ready to yell it to the sky, but he heard again the pleading cry of John's name and he tried to force it back down. It came out instead as a trembling whisper.

''Lawrence…'' he said, heard the crack in his voice before he heard a feeble response below his feet. For a moment, he felt a burst of hope glow in his chest but then he looked and saw dark eyes, an old, weather-worn face.

''M-my name is Lawrence…'' the man said. There was a blood stain pooling and spreading below his blue jacket, just above his heart, but a sense of serenity in his eyes. ''Are you looking for me?''

Tom gulped and shook his head, couldn't say anything to him. Neither could he look back as he moved on, eyes back on the field before him. A purple mist was beginning to descend onto it and before long, it would be dark. He had to find him before then. He couldn't lose two in one day. _Not my brother, anyone but my brother._

His name was pushing at his lips again, about to break and scream, but then, across the hazy sea of bodies, standing on some island, there was a figure, looking back at him and staring. Just staring.

He wanted to run, call out to him, but his legs were too weak and his voice lost. He instead began to stumble, his eyes never leaving him as if he would just disappear if he stopped. They met halfway, found each other silently and slowly, and Lawrence grasped his shoulders, looked long and hard at him, searching for something. Tom knew his knees were softening, could feel his throat tightening but he couldn't move, couldn't look anywhere but Lawrence.

It seemed they stood like this forever, maybe he wanted to, didn't ever want to see a battle like the one he'd seen over the last three days again. As Lawrence's grip slowly became less firm, he suddenly felt faint, was there again at the top of this bloody field, shuddering of the weight of what he'd seen, what he may be about to see, but then he was being pulled closer and Lawrence's arms were around him, protection from all those memories. In the midst of all this madness, he hung on to his last shred of hope for dear life, trembling and trying to hold back the tears before they spilled over and he helplessly whispered Lawrence's name into his shoulder.

Lawrence had always been there, the man who couldn't face shooting deer on the hillside back home but had, just the day before, ran and yelled down another hill now so far away from home into the face of the shocked Rebels, fearless as a lion sheltering his young. _This is my brother_, he had said to a defeated Reb officer when they stood before him after. _My brother_. _The one who used to make up stories when the storms raged outside the house to send me to sleep_.

He clung to him then like those storms had returned, though knew that no wild Maine storm could be anywhere near as vicious or bone-chilling as that day in Gettysburg. It would be another beautiful summer back home right then in Maine, the freshest, sweetest, most beautiful place he could ever imagine and oh, he couldn't think of home. Couldn't think of anything anymore, when everything made his throat tighten and knees weaken. What was he doing here?

The question must have slipped from his lips as he felt Lawrence shake his head against his shoulder. He expected a long, philosophical answer, was surprised when he said merely, simply, honestly: ''I don't know.''

_I don't know._ The only three words that had made any sense on this terrible day. _I don't know._ _No. Nor do I._

**TBC**

**Apologies for the wait! Thanks for all the favourites/alerts/comments so far! **

**If this chapter seemed to stop very abruptly, as it seemed to kind of do when I was reading it back, apologies - the next chapter starts pretty much straight after where this leaves off. **


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